Powers of Temptation
by dreamdescend
Summary: The East India Trading Company storms Shipwreck Cove, scattering the Brethren and capturing Pirate King Elizabeth Swann. Proud and resolute, she refuses to be intimidated by Lord Beckett. But will she find herself giving in to the powers of temptation?
1. Let the Games Begin

The East India Trading Company storms Shipwreck Cove, scattering the Brethren and capturing Pirate King Elizabeth Swann. Proud and resolute, she refuses to be intimidated by Lord Cutler Beckett. But will she find herself giving in to the powers of temptation?

**Author's Notes:** I have eliminated Governor Swann's death from this story. You may think I'm taking the easy way out, but honestly, it's impossible to make this pairing work if Beckett is responsible for her father's murder! So, let's pretend that the Governor is still alive and well back in Port Royal. It's not particularly important.

Also, this is a sequel to my other Beckabeth story, Powers of Persuasion, and you _**MUST **_read that first! I hope those that enjoyed that story will like this one just as much.

Please, no flames.

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**Powers of Temptation**

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**Chapter 1**

**Let the Games Begin**

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She never thought she'd have to face him again in this way. 

Of course, confronting him flanked by soldiers was completely different than facing him alone and in her underclothes. But the calm, complacent way he regarded her had obviously not altered, and she felt irritation rising inside her. What was he thinking as he looked at her? Was he remembering? Or merely focused on the more important matters at hand?

How things had changed. Then, he was merely arrogant and ambitious; cold and calculating, true, but to all appearances, just a man in an office with delusions of grandeur. The tables had turned, indeed. He had revealed himself to be a force to be reckoned with, and she found herself sizing him up in a new light. Accompanying this was an anger; a deep-rooted, boiling rage at all he had caused, and all the havoc he'd wreaked.

He took several steps forward, and a ghost of a sneer passed across his face. He reached out and plucked the hat off her head, examining it.

"Charming accessory." He dropped it idly on the floor as he turned away. She followed him with her eyes, wishing looks could kill.

It had been horror, pure horror, sinking its icy grasp into her stomach as East India Trading Company soldiers descended upon the Brethren Court, shot after shot echoing in the enclosed space. Many had fallen, on both sides, but the soldiers proved to be too much for the small gathering and the pirate lords had fled. She could only hope they had escaped in the labyrinthine passages of Shipwreck City, and would do as she had advocated – ready every vessel and sail to meet Beckett's armada.

Pirate King. She was their leader now, and the first thing she'd done was gone and get herself captured. Brilliant. She hadn't even been able to give the order to prepare for war, before the soldiers stormed the Court. To all purposes, it appeared that Beckett had ordered the Pirate King, if captured, to be brought to him. It had taken four soldiers to hold her, and they'd had to chain her hands behind her back instead of in front. The expression on his face when she was marched into the room had been one of utter surprise, followed quickly by suspicion.

She remained silent as he paced ever so slowly, the workings of his mind, although unvoiced, somehow filling the room. Arrogant man that he was, he undoubtedly thought it impossible for her to be the Pirate King – was it because she was a woman, or the governor's daughter? Or simply because he considered her incapable of such a position? The thought made her angrier, if such a thing was possible, rage and indignation clenching her stomach. He gazed out the window over the darkened sea for several long moments, then turned, tilting his head slightly.

"You've certainly moved up in the world," he commented meditatively. "A far cry from the desperate young miss I last encountered."

"I demand you release me," she snapped in return, ignoring his observations. "If interrogation is your goal, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I am Captain Swann, the Pirate King and leader of the pirate lords, and I will not be intimidated."

"My, you are proud of yourself, aren't you?" he mused, a slight smirk passing across his features. But he said nothing else, his thoughts focused more inward than on her.

She wished with all her heart that she had the gift for sensing another's thoughts and emotions that Tia Dalma had. She would give anything to know what was going on in his head. What was he planning? What scheme was he concocting? He'd just been handed a new and valuable bargaining chip, and although the idea of being his pawn aggravated her, she had to accept that at the moment, she was exactly that.

He raised his eyes to her and regarded her contemplatively. She felt her proverbial hackles go up, and she stared back at him fiercely, refusing to be evaluated like a inanimate piece on a chessboard.

"Brig," he said curtly to the soldiers, his gaze thoughtful as he watched them seize her shoulders. "You can mull it all over while I decide what to do with you. And trust me," he added, so softly she could barely hear him, "I will think of something."

The brig was the largest she'd been in – she was becoming a connoisseur – with a sturdy wooden bench and a surprisingly clean floor. Of the four cells, she was the only occupant, but she could hear soldiers' voices and tramping feet above her.

Her own footsteps matched theirs as she paced back and forth, resisting the urge to stomp like a petulant child. How dare he? His nerve was astonishing – his arrogance and calm superiority infuriated her. She had been elected Pirate King and was needed to launch the attack against the Company, but here she was, trapped behind enemy lines, leaving the pirates stranded with no clue what to do next. Surely they would remember her intentions, and sail out to meet Beckett's armada.

She sat down heavily on the bench, staring at her shackled wrists. She felt vaguely gratified that had considered her enough of a threat to leave her hands bound, but also irritated at his prudence. Attempting an escape would be difficult with the weighty iron shackles, and the very short length of chain between her wrists.

What was it with her and being captured? It was a ridiculous cycle, one she'd be glad to break free of. The arrest and imprisonment at Port-Royal, the short-lived stay with Sao Feng aboard the _Empress_, and now this. Not to mention that awful, dreadful, outlandish bargain she'd struck with Beckett in exchange for the letters of marque…

The memory made her want to throw something. She cursed herself for doing such an insane thing – but looking back on it, she could not see another feasible way out of the situation. It had been necessary, and she'd put the guilt and anger behind her… until now. Although the idea was disquieting, she would do it again in a heartbeat to extricate herself from this mess – but she doubted Beckett would take her up on the offer. She could imagine him sneering at her desperate proposition, and the very thought made her jaw tighten.

No. She would never do it.

She could not use sexual charms to finagle her way out of this. Nor brute force, she thought regretfully, feeling acutely the absence of her sword. Not body, not brawn; this was a battle of the brain.

She could do it as well as he could. He was not the only one with the power to persuade and convince, using words as a weapon to sway and provoke. The tongue was a deadly knife that could injure and kill without drawing blood, and he was not the sole possessor of such a weapon.

Two could play that game. And this time, she would not let him win.


	2. Gambling Man

**Author's Note: **I get the feeling this story is starting out a little slowly. I promise the pace will pick up soon. I hope you enjoy it.

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**Chapter 2**

**Gambling Man**

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_She gasps at the feel of the rough, bruising kisses on her neck, tangled pain and pleasure coursing through her. She's torn between disgrace and desire… shame, that the man she hated could make her respond this way, and passion, molten heat racing through her, urging her to throw away logic and feel nothing but touches and kisses and pure sensation…_

Elizabeth bolted upright, breathing hard. The cell swam before her and she blinked the sleep from her hazy eyes.

Dreaming. She'd been dreaming.

She scrubbed her hands across her face, shackles clanking, her shoulders aching from the awkward sleeping position she'd settled into on the bench.

Not just dreaming, she realized uncomfortably. Remembering.

It was the truth to say that on the surface, she hated Lord Beckett with every fiber of her being. There was nothing to like about his arrogance and ruthlessness, his cold attitude and well-mannered brutality. They were as different as the sun and the moon, and she would never view him anything except an enemy.

That was the truth… but it would be a lie to pretend that she had felt nothing in response to him that night. It was a small comfort to know that it was not her heart or mind that had reacted, merely her body, but it had been a reaction nonetheless.

It had been so much easier to pretend otherwise.

She rubbed her eyes again, standing up and stretching her chained arms above her. The guard had been lenient enough to adjust her shackles so her wrists were in front instead of in back, affording her an easier position, but it was awkward nonetheless. She walked back and forth in the cell several times, letting the blood circulate through her legs and working the stiff muscles. As she cleared away the fog of sleep, her thoughts became more distinct, and her confusion and guilt about her past dealings with Beckett faded. What had happened had happened, and it was time to focus on the present. Undoubtedly he was not lingering over it the way she was, and it was imperative that she was on an equal mental footing.

Watery sunlight was filtering in through the tiny window in the corner, although from her position, she could not see the sky. She wished she knew which direction they were headed. And what's more, she wished she knew what had happened to the pirates. In the chaos of battle, and her ensuing capture, she hadn't been able to determine what the soldiers had done to the remaining pirates and ships.

She sorted facts quickly, lighting on solutions and dismissing others. She came to the disheartening conclusion that, although difficult to accept, it was likely the armada had surrounded Shipwreck Island and blasted the pirate ships to smithereens. The thought was a horrifying one, and as her heart sank within her, she sat down heavily on the bench. Impossible!

No, it was possible. And it was the only answer that made sense. She still felt hope that the _Pearl_ had somehow escaped unscathed, as it had a tendency to do, but it was unrealistic to expect the Pirate Lords and their vessels to have survived. Some of them may have fled through the jumble of passages in Shipwreck Cove, true, but they were useless if their ships had been scuttled. It would take weeks to regroup and organize the pirates once more, and longer still to reassemble a fleet of ships even a quarter the size of Beckett's armada. The situation seemed bleak, and she felt a rising frustration that she was left in ignorance about the pirates' predicament. Her thoughts would not settle until she knew for certain what had happened.

As if in answer to her unspoken questions, a trio of soldiers marched down the passageway, stopping in front of her cell. She glared at them balefully.

"Lord Beckett requests the prisoner's presence," a tall soldier announced formally, unlocking the iron door and swinging it open. As reluctant as Elizabeth was to have more contact with Beckett, she admitted to herself that it was necessary, to try to ascertain the pirates' fate.

"I am capable of walking on my own," she snapped, as one of the men reached to grab her shoulder. He shot a questioning glance to his fellow soldiers and they shook their heads.

"Keep hold of her," the tall one said. "We're not to take any chances."

As they escorted her through the corridors and up staircases, Elizabeth found her eyes flicking to and fro as if of their own accord, seeking out good hiding spots and possible escape routes. Her ankles were not shackled, so she could theoretically make a run for it… but where to? It was a large ship, but there were limited options, and even if she hid she would eventually be found. And she was not yet desperate enough to fling herself blindly into the sea.

By the time they'd reached Beckett's cabin, Elizabeth had come to a decision. Now was the time to employ her strategy; actually, _his_ strategy, but turned back on him. She would not bluntly ask him what had happened to the pirates – she would casually mention it, and hope he continued the line of discussion.

The soldiers opened the double doors and pushed her inside, and she stumbled as they did so, almost tripping. She righted herself, and glanced around suspiciously.

The cabin was very large, and filled with all manner of strategic and navigational devices – maps, charts, scattered papers, miniature ships and men, globes with strange metal contraptions. It was like a war study; well, it all actuality, it was.

"You look… well rested," came a voice from the corner, and she slid her gaze in that direction, narrowing her eyes.

"Thank you for the compliment," she said haughtily. "The bench was very conducive to a good night's sleep."

"I thought it might be," Beckett replied indifferently. He was seated at the massive desk, clothed in an elegantly cut coat of deep green – the color of ambition. Loose papers and files covered the entire surface of the desk, almost hiding the fine wood completely, and several large maps served as a backdrop. _What is it with him and maps?_

She hadn't realized she'd spoken the question aloud until he answered her. "I find them compelling. With one glance, you can analyze the world and everything in it… and everything that is obtainable to those strong enough to take it."

"And the pirates fall under your category of things to conquer?"

A faint smirk passed across his face. "Something like that."

"I imagine you feel very pleased with your success," Elizabeth continued, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"Each victory is a stepping stone," he replied philosophically.

"Including this one…?" she said, trying to steer him back to the subject of pirates.

"That all depends on you," he responded. "The information you provide will determine whether last night's event was mindless annihilation, or a tactical triumph."

Elizabeth felt a dead weight settle in her stomach. _Mindless annihilation?_

The expression on her face made him smile, and she inwardly cursed his sadistic amusement.

"Shall I let you in on a little secret, then?" he said musingly, and she tightened her fists angrily.

"Do not toy with me," she snapped. "Explain yourself or say nothing at all."

"Put away your claws," he said with a slight wave of his hand. "I was merely going to tell you that there wasn't, in all actuality, an annihilation. Or, I should say, only a minor one."

He watched her process the information for a moment before continuing. "Apparently there are secret exits out of the Cove that I unfortunately was not informed of. So the majority of your little gathering did, in fact, escape."

She held back her sigh of relief, schooling her face into an impassive mask. "Did they, now?"

Beckett rose up out of his chair, moving slowly towards her, regarding her with a sharp gaze. "It is my belief that there is a second rendezvous point where the pirates will reassemble. Unfortunately, I am currently lacking that particular piece of information… and you, Elizabeth, are going to provide me with it."

She could not hold back a laugh at his arrogant boldness. "You expect me to turn traitor? Perhaps your tactics have worked with everyone else, but you will not find me so malleable."

"That is not the exact word I would use," he replied, a wicked gleam in his eyes, like a cat about to pounce. "Perhaps… persuadable is a better choice?"

Her chest constricted. _Persuasion…_ "How dare you taunt me?" she hissed, forgetting her resolution to remain as cool and aloof as he was. "If you mean to intimidate me by dredging up the errors of my past, you are sorely mistaken. I am not ashamed of my actions, but it will not occur a second time."

"You are not ashamed?" His voice was mild. "Then perhaps you're just blushing because it is too hot? Here, let me open a window."

He crossed to the row of windows and fiddled with the knob, the glass pane opening a crack. "Is that better?"

She was so enraged she could not speak. Her jaw worked, teeth painfully grinding, fists trembling at her sides.

When she finally spoke, her words were sharp and deliberate, threads of barely controlled anger causing her voice to quaver ever so slightly. "You will get nothing from me, and that is a fact you'd better accept sooner than later. No amount of manipulation, or rough treatment, or petty torments you can throw at me will convince me that it's in my best interest to release information to you."

Never mind that she was clueless as to the location of this alleged rendezvous point, but she considered it wise to keep that to herself. It was her sole bargaining chip, and may come in useful later, and she locked it carefully away in her mind as she stared him squarely in the eye.

"You have nothing to hold against me this time. Nothing to influence me, nothing to persuade me, nothing to bargain with or make me change my mind."

"Nothing but you."

His words caught her off guard. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Elizabeth, Elizabeth," he said softly, moving away from the window, his boots gleaming faintly in the light. She tensed, thinking he was going to touch her, but he merely passed her by. "How little you underestimate the powers of temptation."

"Temptation?" she sneered. "You think to tempt me? With what?"

Without replying, Beckett raised his hand, poised to tap on the glass doors. "You appear scornful. I take it you're ready to return to the brig? Or perhaps you'd like to hear me out."

She thought back to the uncomfortable cell awaiting her, and, after a moment's deliberation, she raised her chin in silent assent. "Go on."

"As I was saying," he continued, as if he'd never been interrupted, "It is instinct, pure instinct, that drives us. Buried beneath your posturing and bravado is not some filthy brigand, or a pirate king – there lies a woman. And it is that nature, Elizabeth, that instinct, that so clearly revealed itself to me when we met last." He smiled at her obvious discomfort with the subject. "It is plain you dislike the idea that your baser instincts could override your intelligence and loyalties."

"'Could?' There's no 'could' about it," she snapped, his words making her feel uncommonly vicious. "Make that a 'won't.'"

"Do you care to make a wager on it?"

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "A wager."

He took several steps closer to her. "One month. Or until we find the pirates – whichever comes first. I lay a wager that within that time, you will give up the information to me of your own free will. Not as a result of manipulation, or persuasion, but because you want to. Because of… temptation."

A sneer crossed her lips. This would be too easy. "And what do I benefit if... _when_... I win?"

"I shall set you free." She eyed him distrustfully, and he continued, "I will allow you the liberty to leave when and where you wish."

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "I accept the terms."

He smirked. "Shall we shake on it?"

She paused, turning it over in her mind. It seemed too simple. Did he truly underestimate her that much? Did he honestly believe he could tempt her with lusts of the flesh? Obviously so, or he would not make such a gamble. The stakes were high, and he certainly expected to succeed.

She would show him otherwise.

Elizabeth extended her hand cautiously. He closed the gap between them in two strides and grasped her hand in his. They shook, both grips firm, then let go almost immediately. She stepped back quickly as he returned to the door, knocking on it softly. The doors opened and two guards materialized, marching into the room and taking her by the shoulders.

"I hope you are a graceful loser, Lord Beckett," she replied with a toss of her head, as the soldiers began to escort her from the room.

"I wouldn't know," he responded. "I've never lost."


	3. Praise from Caesar

**Author's Note:** I'm so surprised and grateful for all the reviews – thank you so much! It's wonderful to know that others are enjoying reading it the way I'm enjoying writing it. I apologize if this chapter is somewhat "all over the place." I just adopted a dog, and she's taking up a lot of mental energy!

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**Chapter 3**

**Praise from Caesar**

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Directly after leaving the room, she was escorted to a much smaller cabin. It was obvious that Beckett had given the soldiers the order to do so beforehand, and she found it irritating that he'd arrogantly assumed she'd agree to the wager. 

Irritating, but not surprising.

The soldiers pushed her inside and she jerked her arms away from them, scowling. They closed the door and she heard the click of the lock.

Typical.

She turned and regarded her new surroundings. The cabin was simple but comfortable enough, with a large bunk, a chest of drawers and a small escritoire. So far, she was not impressed – if he thought removing her from the brig was enough to tempt her, he was very much mistaken.

It was almost insulting to see how little he thought of her. He considered her fickle and malleable, so effortlessly persuaded and molded to his will. He so easily believed she could be bought off with a nice cabin and a plate of food – there was bread and dried meat on the desk that she was eyeing ravenously. She hadn't eaten in almost two days, and even then it was only some hard tack and ancient cheese. She took a large mouthful of the bread – it was somewhat stale, but that was to be expected aboard a ship, and beggars can't be choosers.

Chewing it, she wandered about, idly touching a candleholder and running her hand over the desk. There was nothing in it except a few extra candles and matches, but a flash of color caught the corner of her eye. She reached out and removed a tiny swatch of maroon fabric from the top corner of the desk, where it had snagged on a splinter. She fingered the material slowly for a moment, and realization suddenly dawned.

Will. This was Will's shirt.

Her heart began pounding in her chest. What on earth was a piece of Will's shirt doing here? Her eyes flicked to the open cabin, as if to see him lurking in a corner; but that was ridiculous. Was he in another part of the ship, then? And why in God's name would he be aboard the _Endeavour? _

With an abrupt start, she recalled the brief exchange at the Brethren Court. The betrayer was not among them. _Where's Will?_ she'd asked Jack. _Not among us, _he'd replied in that blasé tone of his.

No. Never. Will would never do such a thing. She tried to dismiss the idea almost immediately, but it lingered annoyingly in the back of her mind. Try as she might, and no matter how much she loathed the idea of Will turning traitor, the situation was probable.

Perhaps he was taken prisoner, then made a deal with Beckett after his capture. Where was he now? Hauled off to the brig to make room for her? Maybe he escaped during the chaos at Shipwreck Cove. Questions poured through her mind and she sifted through them like sand, picking out granules of likely situations and discarding others. She paced ever so slowly as she did so, turning the scrap of fabric over and over in her fingers.

Abruptly, she sat down hard on the edge of the bunk, her knees giving way. She had only been awake for perhaps two hours, and she was already weary, the mind games and emotional stress creating a bone deep exhaustion.

She turned her head slowly and gazed out the small porthole. From the position of the sun, she guessed it to be about eleven in the morning. The sky was brilliantly blue, the sea equally so, and there were no islands or sand spits to be seen.

She curled up on her side, the blanket soft but slightly scratchy against her cheek.

She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until she bolted upright, the sound of the creaking door jarring her from slumber. She flicked her eyes to the porthole – the sun had changed position, and she estimated she'd been sleeping for a good four hours.

She backed up against the headboard and regarded the pair of struggling guards with wary interest. They were laboring over something heavy, and to her surprise, they dragged in a colossal wooden bathtub, the feet scraping against the floor. She almost laughed aloud.

"Does Lord Beckett think to entice me with the promise of cleanliness?" she sneered, tipping her nose up at the tub. The soldiers glanced at each other, then immediately began hauling the massive thing out again.

"Wait – where are you going?" Elizabeth exclaimed, perplexed and somewhat crestfallen at the sight of the retreating tub.

"His Lordship… gave us strict orders to… remove it," one of the guards puffed, "If you made any… complaints."

Elizabeth stared, mouth gaping, as the door swung shut, the sound of the tub being hauled away slowly fading.

She hadn't really thought her comment would motivate them to take the tub away! True, it was irritating that Beckett would use such a petty comfort to tempt her… but in all honesty, the idea was heavenly. She let out a dejected sigh at the thought of a warm bath – she wouldn't have expected hot water, of course, but even lukewarm would've been paradise. She felt as if she had nine layers of filth on her; her hands were calloused and grubby, and her hair hung lanky and uncombed. What a treat, what a blessing a bath would be…

With no warning, something appeared in her peripheral vision and she jumped with a strangled cry, hand immediately going to her side for her absent sword.

"My God, you scared me," she exclaimed, brow furrowed in irritation.

Beckett was standing on the opposite side of the cabin, his hands resting lightly on each side of the doorway. He was watching her with a vague interest, and she tilted her chin up at him, as if to display her resentfulness at being intruded on.

"What do you want? And how did you get in?"

"You were so lost in thought, Elizabeth, that if a cannon had gone off I doubt you would've noticed. What a blissful expression you had on your face."

She gathered herself up and stared defiantly at him. "How long have you been there?"

He didn't reply to her question, instead indicating with a nod of his head the piece of cloth in her hand. "Have something interesting there, do you?"

She followed his gaze, down to her hand. She hadn't realized she was still clutching the piece of maroon fabric. It was slightly sweaty, from where it had rested in her curled up palm. She glanced back up, smiling sarcastically. "Yes, I thought you might recognize this. Your last prisoner left it behind, I assume?"

She raised the scrap and he eyed it, his expression changing from interest, to recognition, to amusement.

"I think you've done more than assume," he said, dropping his hands from the doorway and linking them behind his back. "Enlighten me as to your thoughts, I'm sure they're most fascinating."

"I believe you imprisoned Will for the same reasons you did me. You wished either to extract information from him, or, more likely, strike a bargain with him. He wants the _Black Pearl, _and it's probable you and he made some sort of deal involving it. He may have used the location of the Brethren as a bargaining chip. I also believe he managed to escape during the battle at Shipwreck Cove."

"Clever girl," he purred, a faint smile gracing his face. To her surprise, she felt a strange sense of pride at his casual praise, but quickly smothered it.

"Do my powers of deduction astonish you?"

"Not at all," he said, almost indifferently. "They meet my expectations most admirably."

Instant suspicion, mingled with curiosity, rose in her. "What do you mean… expectations?"

He waved his hand carelessly. "Oh, nothing at all, I assure you. It's only that I had expected to see some demonstration of your intelligence, and I was not disappointed."

She narrowed her eyes, wondering if her bafflement showed. "Why did you send the bath?" she asked suddenly, changing the subject entirely. "And why did you take it away again?"

He shrugged elegantly. "You apparently felt no need for it."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, as if to protest, then closed it again. "Well, then. Do you wish me to rot in here? Sprout weeds from my hair?"

He let out a soft chuckle. "I take that to mean you've changed your mind?"

"Yes," she gritted out after a moment of mental battle. "I would like the bath. Please."

Without another word, he turned on his booted heel, striding out the door. Although his back was to her, she thought she saw a glimpse of a smile on his face.

The tub was hauled back in again, this time accompanied by two large copper pails of water. She was left to her own devices, told that the soldiers would return to fetch the tub in half an hour.

She poured the pails into the tub, the warm water splashing over the smooth wood. Beckett must be more arrogant than she'd realized, she mused, to have brought such a luxury aboard a ship! Nonetheless, it was obvious he valued cleanliness, and the thought of a dirt free individual made a welcome change from the grime she'd grown accustomed to.

She quickly divested herself of her clothing, discarding them haphazardly on the floor. She was hesitant at the idea of bathing with soldiers tramping up and down the hallway, not to mention Beckett somewhere nearby, but she felt surprisingly sure that nobody would intrude.

An ecstatic sigh escaped her as she sank into the bath. The warm water did not come very high, but it was more than enough – the last time she'd come close to bathing was aboard the _Empress, _and even then it was merely a wet cloth.

She rested her head against the lip of the tub, the ends of her hair floating in the water. She would've been content to fall asleep there, the warm water caressing her naked body, but her mind was hectic and would not rest.

Beckett's apparent admiration of her "intelligence" was odd, and roused her suspicions. What was he playing at? He'd shown nothing but disdain for her before, and she didn't understand the sudden reversal of opinion. Just another of his mind games, she assumed. But, strange as his remarks may have been, it gave the impression that her theory about Will was correct. They had made a bargain, then? Her gut reaction was resentment towards Will, for striking a deal with the enemy… but then again, she conceded, wasn't that what she was doing? There was no telling what his situation had been. He'd done what he felt best.

Yes, he was always doing what he felt best, wasn't he? He never consulted her anymore, never asked for her help or opinion. And neither did she. They'd grown so far apart since their disastrously interrupted wedding… it was _his _fault, she thought angrily, turning her thoughts back to Beckett. If he hadn't intervened, none of this would've happened, and she would still be safe and happy in Port Royal.

_But would you really? _camea niggling voice in the back of her head. Would she truly have been content as the wife of a blacksmith? Would she trade all her adventures for a life of peaceful domesticity?

It was not so much the sword swinging that she loved so, she admitted to herself. It was the mental stimulation, the intellectual challenge of working through a predicament and piecing together a puzzle. This had been severely lacking in Port-Royal, where the biggest dilemma of her day was choosing whether to wear the gold gown or the blue.

"Not that gowns are a bad thing," she said aloud, sinking backwards and submerging her head in the water. Sometimes she missed the feel of silk on her skin, the scent of fresh linen as opposed to coarse, smelly rags…

She reached over the edge of the tub and fumbled for the small ball of soap, rolling it between her palms until it lathered. She ran her soapy hands over her body, inhaling the clean, neutral scent, almost able to imagine the dirt coming free from her skin. She scrubbed at her chipped nails, ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing at her face and scalp.

She felt fresh and new again as she rose dripping from the bath, and, as she had nothing to dry herself off with, settled for slicking the water off her skin with her hands. She didn't really want to get into her dirty clothes again, but had little choice, and put them on halfheartedly, the cloth sticking to her damp skin.

It seemed that all her captors had bestowed her with clothes… Barbossa, with the antique burgundy gown, Sao Feng, with the elegant Oriental garb. It was somehow surprising that Beckett did not continue along the same pattern. Although she would've been reluctant to accept clothes from him, she almost wished he'd offer. The Singaporean warrior attire, while ornate and beautiful, was also stiff and uncomfortable after several days wear, not to mention grubby.

Could she… maybe… simply _ask _him for something to wear? The very idea made her face flush with irritation and embarrassment. It was almost too distasteful to consider. But as she shifted and adjusted her outfit, the dirty material unpleasant against her newly clean skin, she wondered if perhaps she could swallow her pride and force herself to do it.

She sat and watched the water grow cold until a sharp rap came on the door. She straightened and called imperiously, "Come in."

The same two soldiers hurried in, used the pails to scoop the water out of the bath, then opened the porthole and tossed the water out. They heaved the tub out again, what water there was left sloshing away, and shut the door tight behind them without a word.

She listened for the click of the lock, but didn't hear it.

Her heart leapt in her chest. Another confusing trick of Lord Beckett's? Or an imprudent accident?

Either way, she wasn't waiting around to find out, when there was a chance to escape the little cabin. She harbored no illusions about escape – the chances were exceedingly slim, near impossible. The ship was swarming with soldiers, and even if she did manage to slip past, where would she go? She was not so desperate that she'd set herself adrift on the open sea. Nonetheless, she was growing impatient and antsy inside the small, sparse room, and she would seize what time she could to investigate and explore, and perhaps discover something useful.

She stood and padded silently over to the door, turning the handle slowly so it didn't creak.

The moment the door opened, she took off down the hallway, the scent of soap trailing after her.


	4. Clothes Maketh the Man

**Author's Notes:** Thank you very much for all the lovely reviews! This story isn't as easy as _Powers of Persuasion, _and sometimes I get the feeling that things are a little "off." So it's nice to get reassuring reviews. But if you think something's not right, feel free to offer constructive criticism to get me back in line! But be nice… I get all sad and embarrassed at flames… 

Also, I apologize if the events in this chapter seem a little cliché. I just couldn't help it, it sort of wrote itself!

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**Chapter 4**

**Clothes Maketh the Man**

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Elizabeth moved quietly and warily through the hallway, passing paintings and small framed maps hanging on the wall. The corridor branched to the left, and she knew from when she'd been brought in that the corridor opened up onto the deck. She could hear the murmur of voices and the spray of the sea calling to her, the thud of boots and the metallic sounds of jostling guns and clicking swords. Her knuckles were white as her hands made fists at her sides, but she was not truly afraid. She was anxious about being discovered, and not getting the opportunity to investigate the ship; but she had no plans to escape, and nobody could get angry at her for something she had no intention of doing. It was not a crime to merely wander around.

Besides, it was _his_ fault for not locking the door.

Taking in a breath, she stepped around the corner and out onto the deck, raising her face up to the brilliant sunshine. The _Endeavour _was a hive of activity. It lacked the noisy chaos of the pirate ships, but was busy nonetheless, with soldiers scuttling to and fro and working on various small tasks. She wondered where the officers were and craned her neck up, realizing that they must be all on the upper deck.

So far, nobody had paid the slightest bit of attention to her. A couple men glanced up from a pile of rope they were coiling, but had made no move to seize her. Elizabeth was confused, but at the same time it made her suspicious. Why did they do nothing to stop her? Had Beckett _intended _for her to leave her cabin?

She moved farther out onto the deck, cautiously. A group of soldiers was marching towards her and she tensed, but to her surprise they passed her by, with barely a glance in her direction.

She straightened, brow furrowed as she gazed around the deck. Fine, then. If he had no intention of keeping her locked away, she had no intention of secreting herself in corners and skulking about like an animal.

Elizabeth strode out into full view, moving through the soldiers and crossing to the port side, stepping in between two massive cannons. She curled her hands around the railing and gazed down at the churning sea, the salty spray glistening on the brightly painted wood. The bigger ship did not rock so much as the smaller _Pearl _or _Empress, _riding smoothly on the immense swells and choppy waves.

After a moment or two she stepped back – her freshly washed skin was already sticky with salt, and she rubbed at it with her sleeve, turning away from the sea. She raised her eyes to the upper deck, her gaze traveling up the wide staircase and over the assorted officers. She did not see Beckett, but that didn't guarantee he wasn't there.

As if of their own accord, her feet carried her to the staircase and she moved up them slowly, her hand trailing on the banister. Several officers glanced up at her as she reached the top, looked at each other, then back down at their maps. This lack of interest baffled her, but also created a peculiar sense of freedom, as if unseen restraints around her had loosened. She felt invisible, free to move among them without fear of capture or, frankly, any attention at all.

She stood for a moment, unmoving and unsure, her hand still gripping the railing. She watched silently as they murmured among themselves, fingers touching the map briefly, sketching illustrations on the paper with their hands. The braid on their coats glinted in the sunlight, the pristine uniforms looking very grand, but somehow superior, as if the glittering gold and the solid, sophisticated blue were mocking her own dirty clothing.

She approached two officers hesitantly, their voices becoming more distinct as she drew closer. Their backs were to her, the tails of their wigs immaculately white against the dark of their coats.

"What is our position?" she spoke up loudly. They turned to her in guarded surprise, their eyes flicking over her, then back at each other.

After a pregnant pause, in which she could practically hear their minds working, one of them extended the map wordlessly in her direction. "We sailed directly northwest from the pirates' cove," he said, and his finger lightly touched a tiny group of dots on the map. "We passed these islands approximately an hour ago."

They were in the middle of nowhere, Elizabeth realized despairingly, taking the map in her hands and staring down at it. She had not really contemplated the possibility of escape, but it had hung in the back of her mind nonetheless. Now she saw that their present position, if correct, put them hundreds of miles south of Singapore or, for that matter, any land, sailing in the great blank space between India and Africa.

"Are there plans to make port?" she asked, handing the map back to the officer. But he was looking past her, turning away without answering. She heard a soft voice behind her.

"So you can execute your brave escape? Hardly."

She spun around and came face to face with Lord Beckett. "I'm almost astonished to find you up here," she sneered, looking him up and down derisively. "I thought you'd be lounging below decks and letting other people do your work."

To her surprise, he actually looked affronted. "You offend me," he said with a tilt of his head. "Surely you don't believe I know nothing of ships and sailing?"

"No," she conceded with a slight reddening of cheeks. It had been a foolish comment; of course Beckett would be possess nautical knowledge.

But he seemed to have already forgotten the incident. "Walk with me," he said, and although his tone was casual, it was not so much a request as a command. Elizabeth's first instinct was to rebel, but after a moment she admitted that she felt no real desire to refuse, as she did indeed want to see more of the ship.

"Very well," she said grudgingly, falling into step beside him as he moved about the deck. He slowed his pace from time to time, answering an officer's query or merely listening to them speak, watching them adjust sextants and fiddle with navigational instruments. It struck her that, although he may not be at the helm, he was truly in command of this ship, his quiet, observant authority reminding her of a feudal lord surveying his realm.

Despite the fact that she was, for all intensive purposes, his prisoner, she felt strangely safe and comfortable at his side, as if she too were part of his overseeing of the ship. It was an odd sensation and she stifled it, eyeing him from below her lashes.

No, it would do no good to become careless and unwary. Regardless of his current tranquility, it was impossible to ignore the thread of sharp alertness that ran beneath the surface of his calm voice and composed expression.

She felt irritated suddenly, her languid relaxation dissipating, as she followed him down the staircase and back onto the lower deck. Had he no emotion, no feeling? Was he always this hard, cold, serene statue, with eyes like glass and a smirk that could cut diamonds?

"Won't you say something?" she said loudly, frowning at him as they moved out of the harsh sun and back into the cool, dark corridor.

"What would you have me say?" he replied without turning, passing her and entering his massive study. "Recite sonnets for your enjoyment, inquire about your health and remark on the state of the weather?"

She scowled at his back, her eyes flicking over to the officers poring over a chart in the corner. Beckett followed her gaze and dismissed them with a gesture, and they immediately left the room, silent and fleeting as ghosts.

Elizabeth whirled around and continued, "I would have you say something to _me. _You think you can convince me to tell you the location of the pirates? Well, you haven't done much convincing yet! Can we at least get it over with?"

As she spoke he had settled into his chair with a sigh. "Very well. If you like, we can finish it here and now. Simply tell me what I need to know and it will be, as you put it, over with."

Her scowl deepened in frustration. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

She flung up her hands. "Oh, I don't know! I just know that I can't stand sitting around doing nothing, in dirty clothes and a dull little cabin, waiting for you to decide what to do with me!"

His eyes had suddenly become very bright, and very amused. "You inspire me, Elizabeth."

She waited for him to continue, standing before his desk as his eyes traveled over her rumpled, stained outfit. "You are right about your clothing. Rather unattractive – "

"No thanks to you," she butted in.

He gazed up at her, his expression calm but eyes narrowed slightly. "I would appreciate it _greatly, _Elizabeth, if you would not interrupt me again."

She gritted her jaw, and apparently he took that as a sign of consent.

"As I was saying, your clothes are very shabby and stained. I can see why you can't tolerate them any longer. However…" Here Elizabeth caught her breath, hoping against hope that he would make the offer of clothing. "However," he continued, "They do not offend me. They can stay as are for the time being."

Her mouth dropped open. "What? But I cannot stay in these, they're filthy!"

He shrugged slightly. "I see nothing wrong with them. True, they could use a good washing, but they aren't falling off yet. And until then, you'll just have to make do."

His calm dismissal infuriated her. "Fine. Just fine," she spat, her earlier relaxation all but forgotten. Without thinking she began tearing off her dirty clothes, the buttons and hooks ripping as she flung off the coat, tossing away the wide belt and armored collar, thudding as they hit the ground. "If you can't be bothered to procure me something else to wear, then I'll just have to take care of it myself!" She lashed out with a foot, the boot flying violently across the room, tearing the grimy trousers down the seams and flinging them behind her.

"Are you convinced now?" she exclaimed, almost panting in her anger. "_Now_ will you get me something to wear?" With a shriek of pent-up rage, she kicked the other boot, and it went skidding across the floor.

She stood, breathing heavily, as Beckett stared at her. Somewhere deep inside, she was pleased to elicit _some _sort of change in his usual cool demeanor. His expression was a combination of incredulity, and perplexity, with more than a hint of scorn, topped off by an eyebrow that raised in a silent question, as if saying, _What on earth are you doing?_

She looked slowly down, suddenly becoming aware that she was clad in nothing but a flimsy black undergarment that left little to the imagination. Her cheeks flushed, her own imagination running wild, but raised her eyes to his bravely.

"So you see, now I really do have nothing to wear."

He smiled then, and nodded in her direction, as if acknowledging a clever move in a chess game. "And so I have no choice but to find you something appropriate. An admirable line of attack, Elizabeth, even if it was born out of a thoughtless tantrum."

She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or insulted, and settled for wary nod.

"You have my permission to wear whatever you wish," he said with an uninterested wave of his hand.

"Whatever I wish?" she queried skeptically.

"Whatever you can find," he corrected, settling back in his chair and drumming his fingers slowly on the desk. "I hope I can expect you to locate something more appropriate than, say, a burlap sack?"

She sneered at him and strode towards the desk. He paused in his finger drumming, but she swept past, going straight for the small door in the corner. She heard him rise up quickly, his chair scraping on the floor, and allowed herself a small smile as she swung open the door to Lord Beckett's private cabin.

Elizabeth's eyes flicked over the cabin for a brief moment, then she went straight for the chest of drawers, passing the large bunk and elegant little escritoire, bare feet padding across the thick Oriental rug. She flung open drawers, rummaging through the neatly folded shirts and perfectly pressed waistcoats, laid out flat so they would not wrinkle.

Whatever she could find, then? He would regret such casual words.

She smiled in sadistic pleasure as she delved into the froth of white linen, coming up with a shirt that she quickly shrugged into, buttoning it up deftly. She heard his footsteps stop in the doorway and smiled even wider, carelessly tossing a cream waistcoat to the floor. There was a small mirror propped on the drawers and out of the corner of her eye, she could see his reflection in it.

She tugged out a burgundy waistcoat and slipped it on, reveling in the feel of the fine brocade against her fingers. The clothing had been tailored for broader shoulders and a more masculine figure, but nonetheless fit her rather well. Satisfied with her choice, she yanked out another drawer, hauling out several pairs of black breeches and selected one, letting the others fall to the ground. She hopped into them, one foot at a time, tucking the black undergarment into them and buttoning up the sides.

Strange as if seemed, with each article of clothing she put on, she felt as if she were donning a mantle of splendor and capability. The smooth silk and supple linen made her feel tall, endowing her with an unexplainable sense of radiance.

"There." She pronounced the word with a triumphant satisfaction, spinning on her bare heel to face him. "Am I presentable?"

He smirked, but it lacked real malice, and he crossed the cabin slowly, the corners of his mouth working. She wondered if he was holding in a laugh.

"You have provisioned very well for yourself, Elizabeth," he said, his voice light. "Quite the far cry from the oversized soldier's uniform I was expecting. Or… did I say burlap sack?"

"Do I amuse you?" she said indignantly, her momentary victory dissolving, her energy deflating.

He didn't reply, instead gesturing for her to turn. She did so with a scowl of irritation and suspicion. He reached around her, opening a small drawer and pulling out a length of snowy white fabric, and she drew away as he moved to touch her.

"Hold still," he said severely, and she forced herself to do so as he began winding the fabric around her neck.

"You could strangle me now," she muttered heatedly.

"That wouldn't do me any good, would it?" She glanced into the mirror and saw his fingers moving dexterously, somehow intimately, at her throat, his face half hidden behind her but his eyes focused on the fabric. After a moment, he pulled his hands away to reveal a perfectly knotted cravat.

She met his gaze in the mirror. "I look like you," she announced, exasperated, and vaguely disturbed by the resemblance from the neck down.

He raised an eyebrow. "You raided my wardrobe. Were you expecting another outcome?"

She was hit suddenly by a strange, shocking and completely unexpected feeling of camaraderie. Their conversation was far from that of bosom companions, but it was – dare she say it – bordering on friendly? She looked back into the mirror again. His expression was cool, his smile as sardonic as always, but something in the manner of his bearing gave the impression of easy familiarity. Her own face was relaxed, her eyes softened, her brow smooth and free from the wrinkles of anger she knew frequently blossomed there.

At the thought, the wrinkles returned, and she felt herself tensing up again. As if aware of the shift in temper, Beckett turned away with a haughty tilt of his chin. "Perhaps it is time for you to return to your cabin," he said dismissively. A pair of soldiers magically appeared, as if he'd commanded them mentally. "And, maybe, this time I'll request the door be locked."

As Elizabeth was marched away, bare feet silent on the wooden floors, she felt somehow disheartened. Their interaction had been odd, confusing, creating within her a reaction of bemused uncertainty. She was no sure how, but somehow their association had transversed from that of captor and captive to a tentative, delicate familiarity. There was no mistaking it, she was his prisoner and his dominant, superior attitude would not let her forget it. It was all but impossible to ignore the dangerous undercurrent and ever-present suspicion that sparked between them like small, savage little forks of lightning. And yes, she admitted, even the simmering lust that she fought to control and ignore. But something else had manifested, too, and damned if she knew what it was.

"Home again," she murmured mockingly under her breath as she was pushed into her cabin. She crossed slowly to the porthole, staring out unseeing at the afternoon sky, fingering the silk lapel of her – his – waistcoat.


	5. Dance With the Devil

**A/N:** I humbly apologize for the tardiness of this chapter. I've been busy with the new Harry Potter book, organizing my college classes, dealing with unrequited love, drama at work, and life in general. I hope you enjoy this newest installment.

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**Chapter 5**

**Dance With the Devil**

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The great golden disc of the sun hung low on the horizon, brilliant fragments of light dancing off the surface of the sea. The porthole was like a mirror, catching the sun, and Elizabeth had to shift herself on the bunk to avoid the blinding reflection. 

She watched the sky shift from shades of blue to those of rose and orange, the sunset painting bright swathes of color across the heavens, deepening eventually into the deep blues and violets of twilight. The shadows on the floor lengthened and spread, the night stealing in from the corners and dark places, until the only light was that coming from the cracks in the door.

She lit the single candle, listening to the commotion beneath her. She had deduced that the only cabins on this deck were the main study, Beckett's private quarters, and this small compartment. She assumed, then, judging from the muffled, cultured voices below, that the officers were beginning their evening meal. She fancied she could smell the freshly prepared food, her stomach growling in accompaniment to her imagination. She had long since eaten her own paltry fare, the leftover bread and dried meat from that afternoon, but was dying for more to fill her belly, not to mention something to drink.

She knelt, putting her ear to the wooden boards, hoping to perhaps catch what they were saying. It was useless, though – there was no way to distinguish actual words, merely the rise and fall and intonations of voices.

She sat back, resting against the bunk, wishing desperately for a pitcher of cool water. She had had nothing to drink and her head was throbbing. She felt resentful to the officers below, taking their leisure at a table filled with wine and water and all sorts of good things to eat. One of the voices rose in a loud laugh, and, in impulsive irritation at their enjoyment, she stomped her feet noisily on the floor.

There was a brief moment of silence and then, to her chagrin, a voice that was all too familiar said a few brief words. There was a rippled of murmured laughter, and the voices continued in conversation.

What had Beckett said? Something disdainful and condescending about his little prisoner? She felt suddenly childish for having stomped her feet, and wished she hadn't done it.

She mulled over this for quite some time, wondering why, although Beckett was not even near her, he had the annoying and inexplicable power to make her feel gauche and stupid. She had always considered herself fairly clever, and had in fact proven it – but she felt that his quicksilver intelligence and the swiftness of his cunning mind left her lumbering in his wake. The thought confused and frustrated her – she wished only to match him in the subtle duel of words and wit.

It was just that their personalities were so vastly different, she supposed. Although she sometimes wished it were not so, she was an emotional creature, her heart and instincts rising foremost in a crisis, logic all but trampled beneath her passions. Often her emotions served her just as well as reason, having gotten her out of several scrapes in the past… but pitted against this keen, deft, sharp-minded intellectual left her at a stalemate.

It was so easy to underestimate him, she reasoned, as if to explain it all away. The first impression was that of the standard aristocrat, smart and educated (not to mention well dressed) but nothing above average. The second impression showed him to be shrewder than most, detached and with further ambition than was typical. It was, she decided, the third impression that was most accurate. It was then that you realized the true strength of the brain that lay hidden beneath the powdered wig, the force of character and ruthless brilliance that was required to take on such an endeavor as this – mastering the seas.

She was not so very unintelligent, she argued. True, her feelings usually won out over her reason, but she had proved she could put her mental skills to good use. Today, for example – she had combined both, heart and head, to achieve a new set of clothing. And Beckett had praised her for it, hadn't he? It was so difficult to tell whether he was merely mocking her or not, but nonetheless, she knew she was correct. It had been a good move.

Feeling pleased with herself, and satisfied that she was not, in fact, a dimwitted cretin falling short of Lord Beckett's magnificent mind, she rose to her feet and wandered aimlessly around the cabin. Her muscles were cramping from sitting in the same position too long, and she paced slowly, trying to take her mind off her aching stomach.

Her own footsteps must've muffled the sound of others approaching, because she jumped in surprise as the lock clicked and the door swung open. A young soldier extended a plate – the same as earlier, hard tack and dried beef – and as she approached, he said under his breath, "For you, mum."

As she eyed the food disagreeably, her mouth watered at the thought of what must be served below. It would be nothing terribly sumptuous, considering it was a ship, after all, but certainly better than this meager meal. However, it was better than nothing, and she reached out to take it with a reluctant nod of thanks.

But just as the soldier was turning away, she exclaimed, "Wait!"

He glanced back, and after a moment's hesitation, she drew herself up and said, cheeks flushing, "Please be so good as to ask Lord Beckett if I might be permitted to dine with him tonight."

The soldier looked a bit puzzled but made a vague sound of acknowledgment, and closed the door in her face.

She let out a gusty breath. Her request had come dangerously close to groveling – but then again, she feared she was coming dangerously close to going crazy with hunger. Her scanty rations were not enough to quell the headaches or the clawings of need in her stomach, as if her insides were trying to devour themselves. Perhaps she had once considered herself above such pleading… but times had changed, and the possibility of a warm meal and some good wine was too much to resist.

Even if he denied her – and the idea rankled – at least she had tried.

She pressed her ear to the floor again, to hear her message delivered. The voices had died down and she could hear them traveling elsewhere, accompanied by footsteps, and she assumed the dinner was over and the officers were departing. She strained to listen for the soldier she'd spoken to, but several minutes passed before she heard his faint voice, the words indistinguishable. There was no response and her heart sank.

But it was mere minutes later before the soldiers arrived, two of them, as usual. She followed them down a dim staircase and through a hallway, into a large, brightly lit room furnished with many chairs and a long wooden table, two silver candelabras gracing it's polished surface.

The officers' plates remained on the table, the glasses still containing the dregs of wine, the napkins tossed carelessly on the chairs. Two galley boys were clearing up, stacking the plates and cutlery onto large trays, but a voice from behind Elizabeth said, "Leave us."

The galley boys took the half-loaded trays and hurried out the door. Elizabeth turned, raising her eyes, and saw Lord Beckett seated at the head of the head of the table. He was slowly twirling the stem of a glass between his fingers, the ruby red wine catching the candlelight and gleaming as though there were tiny diamonds in the bottom.

"Midshipman Swann," he said idly, gesturing to a plate of food to his right. "I'm sure you're hungry. Please, take a seat."

Elizabeth was so hungry that she did not really hear him, her sole attention for the plate next to him. She strode forward, sinking into the seat and pulling it in towards the table with a loud scrape. A forkful of potatoes was in her mouth before his words registered in her mind. She spat it out, and Beckett made a frown of distaste.

"Midshipman!?"

He took a sip of wine before answering. "It pains me to keep you locked up, Elizabeth. All that intelligence and energy should not go to waste. I have therefore decided to have you advantageously employed aboard my ship, and think that the rank of Midshipman will be more than suitable."

The frankness of his words, not to mention their content, amazed her into absolute silence.

"You're… you're… what?"

He watched as she took another bite of potatoes, chewing very slowly, the expressions on her face ranging from bewilderment to suspicion to doubt and, finally, settling on cynical distrust.

"I don't believe you," she said decisively. "Women have never been permitted to be sail. The Navy would not think of allowing such a thing!"

"But this is not the Navy, is it? This is my ship, and on my ship my word is the only one that matters. I will decide who my officers are."

Her mind was spinning; she couldn't think, could not organize her thoughts. His indifferent, calm proposal was possibly the strangest thing she had heard him say, and she was not sure whether to laugh in derision or delight. Suspicion overrode all other emotions and she set down her fork.

"Why?" she asked simply.

"I told you," he responded, frowning slightly as if she were a simpleton. "You are useless if cooped up in a cabin. You have a quick mind, I believe you like to work, and you are knowledgeable of seafaring. And… you have a particular brand of intelligence that interests me."

"How so?"

He sat back in the chair, taking another sip from his glass and regarding her with a sort of detached curiosity. "I think you consider yourself merely clever. But you have a great deal of cunning within you, and I know I don't need to point that out."

Elizabeth opened her mouth immediately to protest, but no words came. He was right. Damn him, he was right. She had displayed that particular trait more times than she could count – manipulating her father as a child, accepting Norrington's proposal to save Will, kissing Jack to escape the _Pearl, _leading Sao Feng on into believing she was Calypso… she shook her head suddenly, to free her mind of the unpleasant thoughts, and looked up to see Beckett watching her with a gleam in his eyes.

"Yes, you know it to be true. We are more alike than you wish to admit."

"I am not like you," she said heatedly. "You are ambitious, and I am not, and you are ruthless, and I am not, and you are cruel and I am not!"

A wicked smile curved his lips. "You really think those harsh adjectives do not apply to you, Elizabeth? You think that accepting an honest proposal for dishonest reasons, then breaking the engagement to suit your own desires, was not ruthless? You think that abandoning your life to gallivant about with pirates, then captaining a ship and becoming Pirate King, was not ambitious? You mean to tell me you did not enjoy the sense of power it gave you?"

She did not ask how he knew these things; the depth of his knowledge of things past and present, not to mention his uncanny ability to understand her mind, no longer came as a shock to her. But his words chilled her, her flaws exposed and set on the table like another dish.

She opened her mouth in rebuttal, but he made a gesture of dismissal. "Never mind that now. We shall discuss it more in due course. We will focus on your new position."

Elizabeth sat silently for a moment, picking up her fork again and taking another mouthful of food. She chewed contemplatively, her mind adjusting to this new and unexpected idea. Why make her an officer? She was startled beyond belief that he had concocted such an idea. She could not see how it would benefit him… except that he had this strange notion that, in creating this prospect for her, her intelligence would develop into something like his own, although she could not see how.

She swallowed. "The other officers, will they accept it?"

"Their opinion does not matter to me. Nor you, I imagine."

"I assume I will have no one serving under me?"

"No. Although, as an officer, you have the power to give orders to any sailor."

"I'm surprised you see fit to give me any power at all," she said scornfully, tilting her chin up. "I would've thought you'd want every bit of control over me."

"You may have authority," he replied, seemingly unaffected by her taunt. "I have no issue with it, so long as your authority, minor as it is, does not usurp mine. Not that I consider that likely – a midshipman's opinion will not influence me if I do not wish it."

She reflected on this unusual arrangement as she finished her food slowly, stalling to allow herself time to think. To be truthful, she would relish the chance to have something to do, and being on deck with the wind in her hair and assisting with navigation would be more than satisfying. She felt a pang of betrayal, as if, in doing this thing, she was joining Beckett's forces; but that was nonsense. This was just a temporary affair, after all. Besides, perhaps she would also be able to gain more information on their location and destination, and if any of the pirate fleet had been sighted.

Becoming a midshipman seemed a great benefit to her, and none to him. She did not at all trust his motives, but she could take care of that later.

"Very well," she said, putting down her fork and pushing her plate away. "I accept your offer."

He tilted his head slightly. "Elizabeth, it was never an offer. You must understand; I do not make offers. I do not suggest, I do recommend. If I say you are to become a midshipman, then you will become a midshipman. Your "acceptance" has nothing to do with it."

There was no real malevolence in his tone, but his face was stern and matter-of-fact nonetheless. She felt somewhat deflated, but a spark of insolence rose within her.

"And if I had absolutely and unequivocally refused?"

He smiled slightly; almost amiably. "I did not plan for that. I knew you would not refuse."

She had just undergone the strangest sensation to smile back at him, and she quickly busied herself with pushing back her chair and rising to her feet. She waited for him to speak, but he did not, merely gazing down into this glass of wine and swirling it, so she turned to go.

"You will be provided with a uniform in the morning," came his voice behind her. "I would like my clothing back at once. I'm rather fond of that waistcoat."

She nodded without looking back, stepping out the door and closing it quietly behind her. There were no soldiers this time to escort her – becoming an officer had at least that privilege.

As she walked down the hallway, brow furrowed in an odd sense of surreal uncertainty, she could not help feeling that, in discussing this disquieting turn of events, she had just concluded a dance with the devil.


	6. Rank and File

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry it took so long to update. This chapter required some historical research – not only did that take up time, but I had to decide which aspects I would keep historically accurate and which I would just say "to hell with it!" I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but I hope the next one is better.

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**Chapter 6**

**Rank and File**

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The blue and gold jacket was a shining mantle, the cravat a string of pearls, the tricorn a glittering crown.

That was how Elizabeth felt, at least, as she donned her midshipman's uniform the following morning. It was silly to feel such power in simple articles of clothing, but it was the truth. She had felt it before, when she had taken Beckett's, and the same sensation washed over her now – as if, with every seam and every stitch, she was slipping into a new persona.

She had no mirror, but she ran her hands over her front – the smooth hard buttons, the scratchy gold braid, the thick, pliable fabric falling into folds behind her. The velvety ribbon holding back her braid, the soft white abundance of cloth at her neck, the glossy black boots, slightly too large, that thudded on the floor as she walked towards the door.

There was no denying the thread of anxiety in the back of her mind, but it was easy to ignore. She was buoyant with confidence and surety. She dared anyone to insult or mock her – she would prove she was just as capable and knowledgeable and diligent as any man aboard.

There was a spring in her step as she strode the short distance down the hall to Beckett's main study, flanked by two sentries. She knocked, two short raps, and opened the door.

Her poise wavered slightly at the many pairs of eyes trained on her, but she retained her self-possession as she crossed the room towards Beckett's massive desk. He was sitting behind it, as she'd expected, watching the other officers' reactions with interest.

"Midshipman Swann, reporting for duty," she said, her voice clipped, sounding very loud in the silence that had accompanied her entrance. He raised his eyes to hers, and his expression was utterly empty – as if not to endow her with any of his own emotions, as if to see what she made of this situation on her own with none of his influence.

"You will address me as lord or sir," he said, almost carelessly, as he reached for a thick leather-bound book that Elizabeth had not noticed on the desk.

"Sir."

He opened the book, flipping through the thick pages until he reached one that had not yet been covered in writing. He turned it, pushing it towards her. Elizabeth saw that it was a log, and scanned the list of names. _Lieutenant, Midshipman, __Lieutenant… _She realized she was meant to sign it and glanced around for writing utensils, taking a quill from Beckett as he handed it to her. She was careful not to let the ink drip as she wrote out her name and rank in small, correct copperplate.

_Midshipman E. Swann._

The words were utterly final, the shining black ink unspeakably permanent. She had expected to feel guilt, remorse, unease – perhaps it was there, deep inside, but she could not resist the pleasure that filled her. She had a title, she had a purpose. She was no longer some nameless, worthless prisoner.

She set down the quill, looking over her shoulder and raising her eyes to those of the officers in the room. She felt a tremor of hesitation at their staring, distrustful eyes, unconcealed confusion and suspicion on their faces.

"Midshipman," came an authoritative voice to her left, and she turned to face the very tall, pale man who spoke. He had the air of someone who, although carrying out an order, was not completely convinced it was the best course of action. "I am Lieutenant Greitzer. I will instruct you in your duties and responsibilities, and introduce you to the other midshipmen."

She nodded by way of reply, and without another word Greitzer swung on his heel and exited the room. She trailed after, resisting the urge to glance at Beckett, who, she was sure, was regarding the scene with curious amusement. At the last minute, she gave in to the impulse and flicked her eyes back for a last fleeting look – to her surprise, he was focused not on her, but the papers on his desk.

Elizabeth turned back, avoiding eye contact with the other officers, but as she followed Greitzer down the corridor, she could hear voices resume their murmuring, this time infused with a hushed but nonetheless scandalized tone.

"There are few midshipmen aboard," Greitzer announced suddenly, as he moved swiftly down a staircase, Elizabeth in his wake. "However, they have all been at sea at least six months prior to this venture, and are well versed in their tasks."

The lower deck was dimmer, the small portholes not as welcoming to the sun as their larger counterparts above. The furnishings, while serviceable and clean, were also missing the spacious grandeur of Beckett's main cabin and dining hall.

Her eyes fell upon a scrawny youth of about eighteen, sitting at the wide, scarred table, a pile of rope and a large wooden reel in front of him. He wore the same uniform as she, although it had a more faded and worn air than hers.

"Collins." At Greitzer's voice, the young man leapt to his feet, ducking his head in deference.

"Midshipman Swann will be joining your ranks," Greitzer continued. "She is unfamiliar with the Company, and you and the others will be responsible for ensuring that she understands and completes her duties." His voice held a note of condescension, as if appalled that she needed assistance.

Collins peered at her as if he could not believe his eyes, dismay written all over his thin face.

"But, sir!" he protested. "She… that's a woman!"

"I appreciate the observation, Collins," Greitzer said testily. "If you find difficulty working with her, you may take it up with Lord Beckett."

Collins blanched, and shook his head mutely. "No sir, all's well, sir."

"Good." With one last look, of mingled distaste and curiosity, Greitzer retreated, his boots echoing on the stairwell.

Collins stared at her, and Elizabeth stared back, as if willing him to make another complaint against her. His mouth worked for a moment, ready to criticize, but then appeared to decide against it, turning away with what appeared to be a shrug of hopelessness.

"You can help me with the log line," he said begrudgingly, returning to his seat and handing her the pile of rope. "I've finished half the knots."

"I… I'm sorry?" she queried, sinking down into a creaking chair. She understood the general idea of a log line – to measure the ship's speed – but was unsure exactly how it worked, or what she was meant to do with the rope.

"The log line." After a moment, his face changed from irritated to aghast. "You do know what a log line is…?"

Elizabeth bit her lip, annoyed at his appalled expression. "I'm not a complete simpleton," she replied, frowning. "Of course I know what a log line is. But I've never made one."

"Never?" Collins seemed both dismayed and interested. "Why'd they make you a midshipman, then?"

She spread her hands, the rope trailing through her fingers. "I'm not sure." She had wondered the same thing herself – Beckett's intentions were everything but clear. "And although I may not know everything about log lines," she added, straightening and looking him directly in the eye. "I can read any map you set in front of me."

"Who taught you that? Your governess?" Collins chuckled at his own joke, ignoring Elizabeth's heated glare.

They whiled away the next hour or so this way, knotting the rope and winding it around the reel, Collins making the occasional disparaging comment about her gender or upper-class accent. At first, Elizabeth was ready to jump to her own defense at the slightest insult; but she sensed that Collins, while perhaps impolite and brash, was not malicious. He sighed exasperatedly when she asked questions about this or that, but he answered them nonetheless, taking her to the stern of the ship to drop the log line when it was finished.

"You watch the knots," he explained as a hefty sailor threw the weighted piece of wood overboard, another holding tightly to the reel. He held up a small hourglass, turning it so the fine golden sand began to filter through. "And you time it."

When they finished with the log line and stowed it, Collins took her back below decks to supervise the gun crews. She watched with avid interest as the men cleaned and organized cannons and rifles, small pistols and barrels of powder, absorbing information as Collins ordered them where to store things.

"Everything's always a mess after a battle," he commented, directing a man with a bundle of ramrods to a large crate.

She realized, with a deep pang of shame, that the battle he was referring to was the onslaught against the pirates. It felt strange and surreal, to be part of the enemy ranks. It had been so easy to cut down faceless Company soldiers, convinced it was in the pursuit of freedom and independence – but here she was, in the presence of talking, thinking, laughing men she would previously have run through with her sword.

None of them knew her identity, she was sure of it. Some regarded her through sly, skeptical eyes, distrustful of a female in their midst; others with frank, curious, open gazes. But none showed to her the hostility that would have been warranted towards a pirate – _their_ enemy. Her secret was safe from these men, but wondered what Beckett had told the other officers. Did they know she was, in essence, a prisoner? None, save for Greitzer, had ever spoken to her. Was that a result of Beckett's orders?

She was snapped out of her ruminations by a prod from Collins. "No wonder women aren't allowed in the military," he jeered, "Just look at you daydreaming and dawdling like that." She said nothing, merely narrowed her eyes at him.

Elizabeth discovered throughout the day that the midshipmen were mostly ignored by the other officers – or, used as messengers and errand boys. On more than one occasion, when they encountered a senior officer, he would request them to deliver a message to someone in another part of the ship.

Elizabeth did not mind at first, as it gave her the chance to see more of the _Endeavour,_ but after the third time, she complained to Collins, "I'm not a servant! Aren't we meant to study maps, and navigation? Aren't midshipmen trained by the other officers?"

"Of course we are," Collins retorted. "But what are you expecting, lessons in a nice little schoolroom? If we were younger we might have a tutor, but we aren't. If we're nearby when they're charting the course, they'll include us in the discussion. That's how it works. So stop grumbling, you'll get your chance soon enough."

There were only three other midshipmen, and Elizabeth was startled at this low number. "Why so few?"

"This isn't just your run-of-the-mill expedition, now, is it?" Collins answered after a moment – the other midshipmen had refused to reply, regarding her with expressions of absolute incredulity and disgust. "Lord Beckett doesn't want a load of inexperienced lads like us, does he? We're not much help when it gets down to the nitty-gritty. He's probably brought every captain and commander he could find – more brains means more victory."

Elizabeth had to admit this made sense. The majority of the officers she had seen were older, not the typical green youths that she saw frequently in Port-Royal. She had always been aware of the vast power of the East India Trading Company's fleet, but to see it firsthand was a jolt to her system. She wondered if the pirates had ever stood a chance against them.

_Of course they do, _she thought angrily. But she was not altogether convinced, mulling it over again as she glared at one of the other midshipmen, who was still eyeing her warily.

It was late into the day, perhaps six o'clock, when the activity aboard the ship began dying down, at least amongst the officers. Elizabeth found herself, oddly enough, looking forward to the evening meal – she was not sure why. But she was hungry, and tired, and was curious to see all the officers gathered together, and to hear what, if anything, Lord Beckett had to say.

She lingered while the others spruced up their uniforms, dabbing dirt off the collar with a wet cloth and rubbing salt and dust off their boots. She followed suit as the damp rag was tossed to her, touching her face briefly in an attempt to make herself fresh again.

She trooped after them as they made their way to the dining hall, longing for the plate of food that she knew awaited her. She was also anxious to sit down with the other officers – she was not quite sure what this proved, but the image of sitting at the same table, all gathered together, all in uniform, all equal brothers in arms, was one she wanted to place herself in.

The atmosphere of the room had changed from the previous night – filled with officers, it was a completely different setting from her quiet meal with Beckett. Said individual was seated, unsurprisingly, at the head of the table, holding a glass of ruby wine and listening to Greitzer explain something.

Beckett did not look up as she and the other midshipmen sat at the far end of the table, his head turned away as if she was not present. Shortly after, the dishes were brought in by the galley boys – fish and potatoes and some kind of thick broth.

She seized her fork and dug in with relish, washing the first bite down with an energetic swig of wine. She went for another mouthful before she noticed a nearby officer watching her with an expression of utter alarm. She paused, chewing more slowly, glancing at the other midshipmen out of the corner of her eye. Even they were eating in a more restrained method than she – Elizabeth felt ashamed suddenly. She hadn't realized her manners had deteriorated to such a degree.

She took a more careful sip from her glass, holding the slender stem delicately. It seemed like a lifetime since she'd had good wine – she was no expert, but this was excellent, slightly spicy but not too strong.

She tuned in to the people around her, in hopes of hearing something interesting. Strangely, she found the low masculine voices pleasant to listen to, the refined tones soft on the ear in contrast to the harsh lower-class bray she had grown used to. They spoke of sea conditions and the ship's speed, but also, she noted, more personal subjects, like past experiences and their wives at home. The two officers to her right, however, were speaking of their current longitude – the wind had not been the best, one said, and it was likely they were blown off course.

The subject intrigued her, and she spoke up. "What was our position last time it was correctly determined? Can you not gauge by the stars?"

Her voice seemed unnaturally high, more feminine than usual among the male voices. This difference had not bothered her among the pirates – but then, they had not seemed to belittle or doubt her gender like these men did. She almost wished she hadn't spoken – all in unison, heads swiveled in her direction.

"I… I myself have only seen good weather the past few days, " she offered.

"The weather during the day is well enough," came a reply, after several moments of silence. "But the clouds roll in at night and obscure the sky." Her gaze flicked over the men until it rested upon a lieutenant. Recognition sparked in her.

"I see," she responded, suddenly putting a name to the face – Lieutenant Groves, from Port Royal. She had not interacted with him much at the time, but she recalled his affable, open countenance, and seeing a familiar face gave her comfort.

"We are certain enough of our location." A large, dark officer was staring at her with distaste. "It needn't be perfectly exact, at least not for our purposes."

"And which purposes are those?"

The man shrugged. "The pirates have scattered. They will most likely head in the general direction of the West Indies, but with no clear destination. It is not necessary to have an accurate position, as we have no set target."

Elizabeth was surprised at his apathetic attitude. "It may not be absolutely necessary, but surely it's best to have the most information possible –"

But the officer had returned to his meal, turning his head away to speak to another, disregarding her as if she had not spoken. She was left with her mouth half open, furious and astonished at his casual dismissal. She looked around, as if to seek out others who had taken notice of his discourtesy, but they seemed unruffled, continuing on with their dinners and discussion as if nothing of significance had passed.

She stared down at her plate, her vision blurring, her appetite fading, overwhelmed by frustration. So much for her ideas of comradeship, and intelligent company, and afternoons spent charting their course – her easy confidence of the morning seemed a distant memory. She could see in their faces that not all the men disliked her, but others appeared offended at her very presence. Some, like the one she'd just spoken to, apparently considered her of little importance.

She raised her head, casting her eyes down the long table at Beckett, as if in a silent plea. He met her stare for the briefest moment; then his gaze slid away, his face turned in profile to her, not the slightest expression passing across his features.

It irked her to admit it, but she'd been hoping he would speak to her. At least to commend or for her efforts, or ask how she had spent the day. No, she supposed it was foolish to have expected it. But what about all he'd said? He'd spoken of her intelligence – he'd made her a midshipman, after all. Had he only given her this position to make use of her? Or was it his idea of amusement? Most of the officers treated her as unconcernedly as they would the humblest sailor, and now it appeared that he was too.

Did even he consider her beneath his notice?


	7. Pride Goeth Before a Fall

**Author's Note: **A short chapter, I know, but I like it anyway. I hope you do too.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**Pride ****Goeth**** Before a ****Fall**

* * *

The next day dawned cloudy and breezy, and it was apparent from the slight nip in the air that they were sailing in a more southerly direction. She rose early and spent two hours with the officer of the watch, who scrutinized her out of the corner of his eye but treated her politely nonetheless. She took pleasure watching the watery sunrise, the sky awash with pale pinks and blues, the fresh, tangy sea air filling the great white sails and bearing the _Endeavour _swiftly along.

After a rushed breakfast of porridge, she and Collins oversaw the checking of the ship's boats, recruiting several nearby sailors to test the ropes and stability of the boats. They had nearly finished the boats on the port side when Lieutenant Greitzer passed, and, catching sight of Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, approached her.

"Ah, Midshipman," he said, fishing in his pocket and producing a folded piece of paper. "Take this to the officers on the upper deck."

She eyed the paper. "Aren't you going there now?"

He shook his head, and extended the paper to her, but she did not take it. "But I'm busy," she explained, turning away. "We've almost finished the boats."

His brows furrowed. "Please deliver this message. I gave you an order."

She frowned back at him. "And _I_ told you that I'm in the middle of something."

He straightened slowly, looking down at her with a resigned expression. "Very well, then. Collins?"

Collins, who had been discreetly eavesdropping, leapt up and immediately took the paper, hurrying off towards the upper deck.

Elizabeth found that it was easier to work without Collins around. She alone was in charge of the men, and did not have to play second fiddle to the younger, albeit more experienced, midshipman. But she discovered that although she was more at ease, the men were not, slow to follow an order and quick to question. She grew more irritated as time passed, angry at their sullen faces as the wary, mutinous glances they sent her.

"For God sakes!" she exclaimed, reaching forward and snatching a rope out of a man's hand, rapidly tying it into the required knot. "It would be sundown before you'd finished with that!"

"Sorry, miss," he muttered, and Elizabeth glared at him.

"You will not address me as miss," she said, voice steely.

"Well, I won't call 'er sir," came a muffled voice from the back. Her head snapped up.

"Who said that?"

No response came, and her eyes flicked accusingly over the small crowd of men. "Which one of you said that? I will not tolerate – "

She stopped abruptly, seeing their expressions change from surly to respectful. She straightened, pleased with the effect her words had upon them. The feeling deflated suddenly as she realized their eyes were looking past her, and she turned, seeing Lieutenant Groves directly behind her.

"Midshipman Swann is right," he announced firmly, his gaze sweeping over the men. "You will accord her the respect due to an officer."

Elizabeth glanced back at the men, anger bubbling up inside her at the deference they showed to him, but not her. Groves did not seem to notice, but instead moved forward, examining the knot Elizabeth had just tied.

"This is incorrect," he commented, deftly unpicking the tangle and knotting it again. Elizabeth realized he was right – in her aggravation she had tied the knot improperly.

"Thank you, but I do not need your help," she said stiffly, as Groves finished lashing the rope against the boat.

Groves stood up, blinking at her in surprise, but before he could reply, she turned away, face heated with both annoyance and embarrassment.

For the next little while she worked tirelessly, as if to vent through physical toil. She did more ordering than anything else, though, finding that dissatisfaction made her fingers clumsy and she made more mistakes than not. She barked out commands, wondering why these men did not respond to her leadership the way the pirates did. Most of the pirates were perfectly content to obey her, but these men apparently lacked the discipline to take orders from a superior. But why, then, were they so respectful to Groves?

Lost in her musings, she heard a quiet cough behind her, and turned to see an officer she did not recognize. "Lord Beckett requests your presence in his office."

Elizabeth sucked in a breath, as if to keep from screaming in frustration, and strode away from the infuriating men without another word.

* * *

She marched into the study, stomping her boots more than was necessary on the wooden floor. She jerked her head around, eyes sweeping over everyone present, but not finding her target.

"Where's Beckett?" she demanded, voice clipped.

A couple of the officers looked surprised – perhaps at her brusque tone, perhaps at the lack of respect in referring to Lord Beckett so casually. But nonetheless, one said, "In his cabin. Midshipman, it would be best to knock – "

But she was already headed towards the door in the corner, pushing it open with one hand, striding in, and slamming it shut with the other. Her gaze locked onto him instantly, sitting at the small escritoire with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He set them down, raising his head at her noisy entrance.

"What do you want?" she cried, her frustration overtaking her. She had so hoped he would speak to her last night, but he had hardly even glanced at her. Now he thought she could be summoned whenever he wished? "I was busy. Did you know how disrespectful your men are? They won't follow orders in a timely manner, they make rude comments, they barely listen to a word I say…"

She ran out of air, sucking in another lungful to continue her spiel, but Beckett raised a hand to silence her.

"Take a breath, or you're liable to choke on all that nonsense you're spewing."

She drew herself up furiously. "It is _not _nonsense. Why don't you just tell me why you sent for me so I can get back to my work?"

He took his time responding, as if he was turning over her words in his head. "All morning I've been hearing… complaints, from my officers."

She regarded him suspiciously, breathing hard. "What kind of complaints?"

"They say you are demanding and overzealous in your new authority. You won't take orders, but expect the men to obey yours explicitly."

She instantly thought of the message she was asked to deliver. "Greitzer. He was the one who complained?"

"Among others."

"But it was so silly! I was occupied, checking the boats with Midshipman Collins. I said I was busy, and Collins took the message."

"An order is an order, and you failed to follow it."

"But… but…"

He sighed. "Elizabeth, your time away from civilized society has corrupted you." He tilted his head, regarding her speculatively. "Or perhaps you were always this way?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What way?"

"So self-centered."

She blinked, startled. She wasn't sure what she'd expected him to say, but that wasn't it. "Self-centered? Me? I am the farthest thing from it!"

"I beg to differ," he smirked. "You refused a simple task because you considered it beneath you. You expect us all to attend to your every word, to accept and approve each statement. You seem amazed when anyone decides that your opinion is not, in fact, gospel."

She gasped indignantly. "And what about you!? Always sitting in that chair as if it were a throne, watching everyone like a feudal lord surveying his kingdom!"

"But therein lies my point," he replied, with a slight wave of his hand. "This _is _my kingdom, and these are my men. They answer to me. Unlike you, who possess little to no authority here and have been an officer for – remind me, how long has it been? Two days?"

Her fists balled in anger. "If you wanted me to sit around and say nothing, why on earth did you make me a midshipman?"

"You don't need to speak to accomplish things." To her surprise, a shadow of disappointment passed across his face. "I had hoped you would learn to observe, to take in what is around you, instead of blustering around and creating resentment."

She tossed her head. "Do your officers resent me, then?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you, if a complete stranger flung herself into your midst and tried to order around your men and undermine your authority? Some of my officers are twice your age, and all are experienced and intelligent – if they were not, I wouldn't have brought them. So don't presume to think you are more suited to lead than them."

The truth of his words settled heavily in her gut, her face flushing. It was unreasonable to expect the men to accept her so quickly - a stranger, and a woman. But she gritted her jaw mutinously, refusing to acknowledge what he'd said.

Beckett was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. She understood suddenly that he knew that she knew he was right. He adjusted his lace cuffs, then turned his attention to the sheaf of papers on his desk. She stood silently, scuffling her feet for several long moments.

"What would you have me do?" The soft, deferential words were out before she realized what she was saying.

He glanced up at her again. Then, abruptly and without warning, his lips curved in a slow smile. Not a smirk, or a sneer, but a true smile, softening his mouth and changing his face entirely. The foreign expression took her aback – her pulse sped up a notch or two as she stared at him, something strange and unfamiliar swelling inside her.

"There is hope yet for Midshipman Swann," he murmured, pushing the papers aside. He beckoned with two fingers. "Come here."

She took several hesitant steps forward, as if in anticipation. She could not account for the extraordinary sensation coursing through her, but knew somehow that it was connected to that smile, that appreciative, accepting, merciful smile.

And she knew, with a tremor of both pleasure and foreboding, that she would do anything to earn that smile again.


	8. Conflict of Interests

**A/N: **Sorry for the slow update, I was in Seattle! And for all those reviewers who thought Chapter 7 was the end… no worries, there's plenty more to come!

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**Conflict of Interests**

* * *

Elizabeth slipped quietly through the narrow corridor, her back to the wall. A button clicked against the wood and she paused, but the sound had been lost among the myriad echoings of the ship – the creaking of the planks, the slosh of waves on the hull, the squeak of the metal lanterns on their hooks, their handles rusty from the damp. 

She did not particularly want to be detected – however, if anyone discovered her, it would be easy enough to say she was checking that the men were up to no mischief. In a way, it wasn't really a lie.

"I have suspicions," Beckett had explained earlier that day, as he regarded her with a critical gaze. "That some of the men harbor sympathies. Perhaps even connections. They may have been planted as spies,"

"By the pirates?" This had peaked Elizabeth's interest.

Beckett nodded. "This has been a long voyage. They grow weary, they wish to return home. Their minds work during the late hours of the night – what are we fighting for, what are we attempting to accomplish? Why do we not change sides and follow the lure of treasure and independence? They are simple sailors; they do not understand the glories I shall achieve."

A slight sneer had crossed his face, as if in disgust at the men. "Many are trustworthy. That I will accept. But others…" He trailed off, watching her gravely. "I need somebody loyal and discreet and intelligent, to interpret what she is hearing correctly and bring it back directly do me."

She tilted her head slightly. "You're asking me to be a sneak?"

"To observe."

"I'd feel like a child. It's tattling."

"It's espionage."

"It's snitching."

"Apply whatever adjective you wish. Just do it."

Elizabeth wondered, as she crept through the hall, if this was not, in some way, a test of trust. She had not yet forgotten their bet. Would she be loyal and bring back correct information? Or would she attempt to aid the mutinous men? She had to admit, the idea of leading an uprising had a certain appeal to it, as did the thought of winning the bet. But the memory of Beckett's smile, and the confidence placed in her, still lingered in her mind.

She approached the entrance to the men's quarters. There was no door, which afforded her a clear view of bunks stacked high in orderly rows, assorted shoes and shirts and jumbled possessions on the floor. An empty bottle rolled across the floor, ringing out softly. It was late – or, more accurately, very early, and the sound of snores filled the room. She had only a short window of time in which to fulfill her task – the watch would be returning, and it was these men she was meant to spy on.

Spy… it was such an unpleasant word. It made her think of sneaking, creeping, deceitful little weasels. Especially since she had been forced into such an awkward position – to discover and relay to Beckett the very information that could help her! She felt dirty, as dirty as the dusty, cobwebbed crevice between two big barrels that she was working herself in to.

Was it possible that some of the sailors had connections to piracy? If so, they were probably not very high – not high enough to know if there was a second meeting place, or where it was. But if they did, she didn't necessarily _have _to pass on that information to Beckett…

She heard the sound of footsteps. It was now or never. Her body remained frozen, the two factions of her mind battling for control of it – stay and listen in, or reveal herself and conspire with them. Stay, or go, stay, or go…

She could see several pairs of boots coming down the narrow stairway, could hear the mutter of coarse voices.

Stay, or go, stay, or go…

As if of their own accord, the muscles in her legs tightened, the joints springing into action, her palms pressing against the barrels, pushing her up and out of the dank crevice.

"Gentlemen."

The three men stopped just as they neared the bottom of the staircase, blinking at Elizabeth warily.

"Yessir," one spoke up.

"I am Midshipman Swann," she began. Her voice wavered slightly, but grew stronger as she continued, "You only know me as the strange woman officer. Undoubtedly you've jeered at me behind my back, and questioned those who put me in this position. But you do not know my true identity. I think we can help each other."

Their gazes were suspicious. "How so?" the first one asked cautiously, fingering the dirty cuff of one sleeve.

"I sail with Jack Sparrow aboard the _Black Pearl. _I took Sao Feng's place at the brethren court. I was abducted at Shipwreck Cove and forced into this position," she continued, taking a step closer. They took a step backwards, and her heart sank. "Do you not believe me?"

They glanced at each other, then back at her wordlessly.

Elizabeth paused. "Yo, ho, haul together…" she sang under her breath, very, very softly. As she did so she fumbled beneath her waistcoat, to where she still wore the jade necklace Sao Feng had passed on to her. She held it up for them to see, the green gem glinting in the light. "Hoist the colors high…"

Something flashed in his eyes, and this was all the confirmation Elizabeth needed. The thought struck her suddenly that this was the very confirmation Beckett was seeking, too, but she pushed that to the back of her mind.

"You're telling the truth," the man said, almost in disbelief.

"I am. But there's little time to talk, I'm meant to go back to Lord Beckett with information regarding where your loyalties lie. But let me tell you now, we can do this together. We can get off this ship and find another – one that flies our colors."

"How?"

"I don't know. Have you seen the lights of any ships on your watch?"

"Yes, both tonight and two nights ago. But did not report it, in case it was… one of ours, so to speak."

Elizabeth smiled. "Good man."

"My name is Jacob."

"Jacob," she repeated. A barrel somewhere rolled across the floor, and she jumped, nerves on edge. "Now is not the time for a discussion. I will find you later."

He nodded in acknowledgement, and all three men hurried past her to the safety of their beds.

Elizabeth's shoulders slumped, and she let out a heavy sigh. She had taken a huge risk, and she felt the pressure now bearing on her, but she also felt strangely energized. Hope shone on the horizon once more.

With a spring in her step, she moved towards the staircase, resisting the urge to hum. Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and she glanced back – a flash of motion, a strangled cry as a hand closed around her throat, thrusting her back against the wall and almost knocking the breath out of her.

"How fickle is woman," came the sneering whisper. The grip on her throat ceased, transferred to her upper arms, holding her back with surprising force.

"You!" Elizabeth gasped, her wide, stunned eyes staring into Beckett's icy blue ones. She struggled, but shock had temporarily drained her strength and she felt limp as a rag doll. "You didn't trust me!"

"I was obviously correct in my instincts," he responded. "And how strange, you seemed so sincere when I first gave you this task. I was inclined to believe you…"

"Let me go, you're hurting me," she demanded, ignoring his accusations and trying to pry off his vice-like grasp.

"Oh, am I?" he replied indifferently. "These human hands will be nothing compared to the lash."

She sucked in a breath. "You wouldn't!"

"Does not a traitor deserve a punishment?" His voice was low and deadly, and for the first time in a long while, she was truly afraid.

"I have in me something dangerous, Elizabeth," he said, "And you have tested it time and time again. If you think me incapable of beating a woman, you would be wrong."

"Do not flog me." Her words were half an order, half a plea. She had seen the gruesome stripes a flogging left, the whip thrashing a man's back into raw, bloody meat. "Don't flog me."

"You do not wish to taste the lash's kiss?" he hissed. "Then you will feel mine."

Before his words could register he was kissing her brutally, no tenderness involved in what was meant to be a sweet and sacred symbol of love. She fought against him, writhing under his grip in what she was not sure was anger or hate or passion or a sinful mixture of all three. When tense muscles softened and her hands curled around his neck she had no power to stop them, as if they were not her own – when her body ceased protesting him and instead sank into his cruel embrace, it did so of its own desires. Not her, not Elizabeth, not her own mind…

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Elizabeth fell against the wall as Beckett released her and turned to the intruder.

"Lord Beckett! A ship has been spotted."

"Colors?" he snapped brusquely, but the officer shook his head. "It's too dark to tell."

Without either a word or glance to Elizabeth, Beckett moved rapidly towards the staircase, coat tails rippling, the officer falling into place behind him. Both pairs of boots thudded ominously on the wood as they disappeared from view.

She was left dazed and disoriented, her mouth swollen, tremors running through her limbs. She could taste expensive brandy and fine tobacco on her tongue, and she moistened her lips as if to prevent it from fading. The punishment had been meted out, and she wondered vaguely if she should have chosen the lash. The stinging stripes would have been easier to bear than this violent, consuming lust…

Elizabeth jerked out of her reverie abruptly, dragged back to reality at the sound of footsteps on the upper decks where before it had been only silence. Common sense dictated she should be up top where the action was, and she took the stairs two at a time, unconsciously rubbing at her upper arms where his iron hold had bruised her.

The night air was chill, as if the stars themselves cast down the cold breeze, and she squinted as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. The scent of smoke lingered, as if the lanterns had been extinguished in a hurry, but there was a single light remaining, and it illuminated the figures of several officers huddled on the starboard side. In their center was Beckett, gazing intently through a spyglass.

Elizabeth crossed the deck tentatively, as if her footsteps would disturb them, following his line of sight out into the dark open sea. She could see it – a faint flicker of light adrift in the velvety black. It was undoubtedly a ship, but the all important question remained elusive. Was it a pirate ship? She strained her eyes, but it was impossible to make out any features of the distant ship.

"Adjust course," she heard his soft murmur. "Follow the ship and alert me at dawn."

She moved her head back and forth, as if to peer into the circle of officers, but they were dissipating, muttering animatedly amongst themselves. Beckett remained at the railing, pacing it slowly, staring out into the blackness as if he could penetrate it and read its secrets. She was struck suddenly by how strangely beautiful she found him – booted feet spread apart, hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back, shadows playing over his features and the folds of his clothing. The sensation was odd, and she closed her eyes as if to free herself from it. She turned to slip away before she caught his attention, but his gaze snapped to her, and she froze like a startled animal.

"You," he said brusquely, "Will come with me."


	9. All the Queen's Men

**Author's Note: **I humbly apologize for not updating in ages. Six months! It's so long! I feel guilty about leaving you all on the hook. But, to be honest, I've kind of lost interest this fandom. It's hard to believe, since I used to be so obsessed with it, but I've just kind of… moved on. I've sort of lost the inspiration for this story, so I'm sorry if this chapter isn't as good as the rest. However, I still really want to finish is, so I'll try my best.

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**Chapter 9**

**All the Queen's Men**

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"So now it comes out," she said scornfully as she followed him through his cabin door. Her lips were still swollen from his brutal kiss, but she folded her arms firmly, as if this could create a wall between them. "I knew you would attempt to lure me into your bed at some point."

His eyes were ice cold. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm merely hoping that you will do the least damage under my supervision." He removed his coat and tossed it over the chair, boots silent on the rug as he crossed over to the small alcohol cabinet. He poured himself a small glass but did not extend the offer to her.

"Surely you're not surprised," she burst out. "Did you expect me to meekly fall into place among your cronies? I'll do whatever I damn well can to get off this ship, and you should know that as well as I." He didn't pay her any heed, and she let out a huff of frustration.

Elizabeth's gaze flicked around the room. The bunk was only slightly larger than her own, but Beckett had somehow managed to make it appear twice the size, with luxurious fabrics and full pillows. The Oriental rug was small but obviously expensive, the rich cherry color of the little table complimenting the pale reds of the carpet. A slim wooden box sat atop the table and she idly ran her fingers over it.

"Do you play?"

She hadn't noticed him turning around and she blinked in surprise. "Play?"

He gestured to the box, and she pulled her fingers back. "It's a chess set."

After a moment she reached out to touch it again, sliding open the lid. Stark black and white, the elegant little figures gazed blankly up at her against a checkered field.

"I play poorly," she admitted, looking away from the pieces' disappointed stares. "I don't have the patience for it."

"That I can believe," he replied coolly. She merely responded with a frosty stare of her own as he continued, "You know, you rather remind me of a horse, Elizabeth."

"That's a compliment I haven't received before."

"Wild and reckless," he mused aloud, moving the small glass between his fingers and looking into it as if it imparted some great wisdom. "But with so much potential."

"If you mean potential to become like you, I think I'd rather remain unbroken," she sneered, irritation fueling her words. "You think you can control everything the way you control your little models on a map? People aren't pawns! They have faces and feelings, they're not like your game pieces to move about on a whim!" On an impulse she reached forward, seizing an ivory knight and rubbing her fingers over the horse's head. "Maybe you think this is me? A horse _and_ a chess piece? I cannot be done up in so simple a package, my lord." She sat the last words with absolute scorn.

He tilted his head, then set down his glass and moved slowly towards her. "Do you fancy yourself the queen, then?" He reached for her and removed the knight from her curled fingers, putting it back in the box and replacing it with the ebony queen.

"Indeed," she said softly, smirking faintly at him, "For the queen is most powerful of all."

He regarded her for a moment, then smiled. "Not in my game."

She opened her mouth to reply but abruptly the ship shuddered, and she grabbed at the table for support as a deep rumbling echoed from above decks. "What was that?" she exclaimed, her witty retort forgotten.

"Stay here," he said, crossing the room quickly and flinging the door open. Another crash rocked the ship.

"Cannons!" she gasped, adrenaline coursing through her. She sprinted to the doorway but she caught her square in the chest with his palm.

"Don't move from this room," he ordered, staring at her with a furious intensity, "Or I swear to God I'll flog you myself."

And with that he pushed her backwards and slammed the door in her face. "Open this!" she yelled, hammering on it with her fists, fury rising within her at the sound of the key turning in the lock. "Beckett, damn you!"

Cannons could mean only one thing – pirates. And pirates meant rescue. She remembered what the sailors had told her. The ship must have been trailing the _Endeavour _for several nights and was now launching a night attack.

It was perfect.

She grew frantic at the thought of missing her chance for escape. She ran to the little desk and tore open the drawers, fumbling through the mass of useless papers for something to jimmy the lock. She grabbed a letter opener and raced back to the door, staggering slightly as the ship rocked under heavy fire. No matter how she wiggled and twisted it in the lock, it wouldn't budge, and she threw it across the room in frustration.

Abruptly the large pane of windows exploded inward, and Elizabeth instinctively fell to the floor, arms over her head as the cannon ball ripped through the room, spraying her with glass and debris. She cried out as something struck her head and she reeled backward, ears ringing, grasping around in the wreckage to try to haul herself upright. The gaping, empty window revealed the pitch black sea, tinged by the faintest glimmer of dawn on the horizon. She stumbled towards the gap, brushing the broken glass away from the edge before looking outside. It was hard to see clearly in the dark, but she could make out the main railing of the ship directly above her. If she could somehow climb up to it, she could be in the middle of the action…

She took a deep breath and swung her hand upward, scrabbling for a hold on the carvings. She found one easily enough and sought another for a toehold, hoisting herself up inch by inch until she was completely outside. The wind whipped at her clothes and hair and as the black waves churned below, she prayed she could hold on until she reached the upper deck. The ship jolted again as it returned fire, the triple rows of cannons blasting away into the night. She was lucky that Beckett's cabin was towards the stern of the ship, or else she'd have been blown away. She held tight to the side of the ship, nails digging painfully into the slick wood, conscious of the very real danger she was putting herself in. One slip and she would be lost to the sea.

She was sweating from both fear and exertion by the time she wrapped her arm around the upper railing. She clung to it in relief, using all her strength to heave herself over. She collapsed onto the deck amid organized chaos. Every light had been doused to minimize the ship as a target, save for one small gleaming lantern near the mast to give the sailors light to man the cannons. There was no moon and the night was velvety black, punctuated by brilliant bursts of orange and red sparks from the cannons. She could see the lights on the pirate ship – why didn't they extinguish them, she wondered, they were only making it worse on themselves! The return fire from the _Endeavour _was immense, and she could only imagine how it was ripping through the other ship.

She scrambled to her feet, making a dash for cover against the wall. She couldn't risk Beckett seeing her. Her gaze flicked across the deck, eyes narrowed in the dark, searching for her salvation – a longboat. The damage to the _Endeavour _seemed minimal so far, but, with her bad luck, the boats might be destroyed already.

A wild-eyed sailor ran past her, and with a sudden movement she reached out and snatched the large knife from his belt. He hardly noticed, tearing by her and down to the lower decks. She tucked it into her own pants. _It can never hurt to be well-prepared._

She sidled along the wall, knowing Beckett would be on the quarterdeck above her. If she stayed in this area, there was little chance he could stop her. For her eyes were fixed on the longboat on the opposite end of the ship – the ropes holding it were blown away, all she would have to do was launch it into the sea and leap to freedom…

Taking a deep breath, she lunged out onto the open deck, sprinting towards the boat. She wove through the sailors, ducking beneath their outstretched arms, her eyes on the target. If she could merge among the crowded crew until the last possible moment, she could quite possibly get away with no one the wiser. An explosion blasted across her pathway and she went flying backwards, the wind knocked out of her as she smashed into the deck. She sucked in a lungful of smoky air, rolling quickly to her feet as she heard a bellow, "Stop her!"

It was not Beckett's voice, but one of his subordinates – she risked a glance back to see a lieutenant charging down the stairs towards her, trying to push through the throng of sailors. She ran the last few feet to the long boat and whipped the knife out, slashing desperately at the last few ropes holding it to the ship. It hit the water lightly, almost like a child's toy, bobbing about on the black waves.

The pirate ship was not far. If she could row at least halfway to it, they would spot her. Deliverance was nigh…

The lieutenant was mere yards from her, shoving sailors out of the way. She raised her eyes back to the quarterdeck. Beckett's eyes blazed down at her, hands gripping the railing as if it were her neck.

She turned away and leapt out into waiting sea.

Elizabeth cried out in pain as she crashed into the longboat, water sloshing over the side and soaking her. Her bones felt brittle and broken, protesting against the jarring fall, but she tested her movement and decided she was not grievously hurt. She let out a groan and reached for the oars, forcing herself to sit upright as she dug them forcefully into the waves, propelling herself out into the sea.

At last! Free from the ship and all it represented, the very air tasted sweeter somehow. She expected pistol fire, or even cannons leveled at her, but none came, and she thanked god in heaven that the pirates' attack was otherwise occupying them. As she stared up at the retreating ship, it seemed part of someone else's world, nothing she'd ever had anything to do with. Like a long-forgotten nightmare it receded in the distance as she rowed furiously, glancing behind her on occasion to check her progress. She cringed each time a cannon ball whistled by, but she felt relatively safe – after all, she was all but invisible, and she wasn't the target of anyone's fire.

Her shoulders began to ache but she soldered on, fighting against the pain from both exertion and the fall into the boat. The pirate ship was coming closer into view now – it was a small, shabby affair that nonetheless looked like nirvana. She could make out the little figures dashing to and fro on the deck and this gave her fresh hope as she rowed. She heard a shout of surprise when she was spotted, and her heart soared within her as it had not done for weeks.

Freedom.

"Don't fire!" she called out, hoping her voice carried over the waves. "I am an escaped prisoner; I am one of you!" Her little vessel quickly crossed the remaining gap and bumped against the hull of the ship. She allowed herself a smile of triumph as multiple faces peered down at her, and she grasped the steps dug into the side to climb up. She tried to dig out Sao Feng's necklace from beneath her clothing to prove herself, but a beefy hand reached down to her before she could.

She seized the proffered hand gratefully and resisted the urge to shout with relief as she was hauled aboard.


End file.
